


A Moth & A Flame

by SpoiledCitrus



Category: A Hat in Time (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Comfort, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Other, this is my first fic here please dont turn me into bread
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:28:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24216661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpoiledCitrus/pseuds/SpoiledCitrus
Summary: Dead Bird Studios hired some new help shortly after their renowned actress departed. He isn't an actor by any means—they needed all penguins and owls on deck without their talented Hat Kid. That means someone else needed to pick up the slack when it came to catering and cleaning up—Thistle is used to the work, and it's even more fun being a bit of a movie buff. That is, until he forgets his obligations and picks up a script.
Kudos: 10





	A Moth & A Flame

**Author's Note:**

> hey! ive never posted here and im thoroughly terrified! ive had this fic sitting on tumblr for a while, and im writing a second part. i figured it was worth posting here! please clap

It was a long, long day. Thistle wasn’t the clumsy sort by any means, but for some reason he was jolted when DJ Grooves loudly and exasperatedly called for a cut, dropping a tray in hand and a couple of cups and mugs on the way down. Panic and dread were set aside as he hastily cleaned up the shattered pieces and spilled drinks—thankfully, nobody gave him hell for an honest accident. Actually, he had offered to pay for the mess—he even insisted, but promptly found his boss and the penguins on set politely refusing his offers.

It was _too_ embarrassing for Thistle.

Most of the crews had gone for the evening—none were on set, that was clear. His antennae hung low on his head, unable to shake the embarrassment that clouded his mind. The little moth absentmindedly collected forgotten mugs and cups left on the wild, western set of the Conductor's—it certainly contrasted with DJ Grooves brighter, gaudier set. He swore it was impossible to focus with all the spotlights beckoning his thoughtless, four-eyed gaze.

Thistle glanced around, two sets of eyes blinking slowly as he woke from his absentminded task—it may have been different, but it was still certainly and clearly a labor of love to set up so intricately. He didn’t notice his antennae twitch up in interest, stepping towards some props as he admired the set—clearly a marvel, if his feelers were anything to go off of.

  
Carefully, he set three trays stacked with cups down on a crate, taking a few steps into the set—he simply… wanted to be sure he had collected everything! That was how he justified his unprofessional snooping, anyway.  
Both directors shot entirely different movies adjacent to each other at all hours, making it a twinge difficult for Thistle to keep up with general plots he’d picked up around both sets. Of course he wouldn’t be handed a script or synopsis—he was _catering_ , tending to the needs of the casts, not acting. Still… The frustration shared by directors for their crew’s sub-par acting made him think—and that was foolish, he’d conclude.

How foolish of him to then pick up a script some careless Express Owl had left behind.

He didn’t know what exactly was being filmed by both directors, but he was made aware that DJ Grooves had picked up a slightly dramatic tone for his new musical film—something to shake things up for audiences after the departure of the little girl who had starred in both directors’ films. As such, it still surprised Thistle to glance at some passages as he skimmed through the script—apparently The Conductor was also picking up a slightly new tone for his film.

He just didn’t seem the type to humor _romance_ in his films.

All four of his eyes blinked quickly in unison, clearly enthralled by the writing— _how could the Express Owls not get this memorized?_ Thistle felt the lines resonate somewhere deep in his chest, skimming over a specific page a couple times before—

“ _Look around—_ ,” he started, nearly startled by his own voice. His face heated up as he quickly shot glances over both his shoulders, making sure he had no audience. Swallowing hard, he continued with slight pause.

  
“ _Look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now_ ,” he spoke somberly, focused hard on the script as his expression faded to match his serious tone. “ _I knew you couldn’t bear returning to me—not without the guilt… But it doesn’t need to be this way._ ”

He spoke desperately to no one, clutching the script tight has he climbed onto the set train, continuing now without even glancing at the stack of paper.

  
“ _You don’t need to prove anything to anyone!_ ” His voice reasoned confidently, eyes smiling as he felt himself overwhelmed with emotion. “ _You don’t need to live like this. Come—we don’t need a legacy. Run away with me, at the next stop—they’ll never, ever find us! Not if—_ ”

  
He turned on his heel, arm outstretched to the horizon as he plead to a lover unseen—until he suddenly and horrifyingly realized he was not as alone as he hoped.

The Conductor sat in his directing chair, gaze unreadable—was he looking at the clipboard in his hand, or at the out-of-place moth acting on his set? Thistle couldn’t tell, and his abrupt pause seemed to certainly stir his boss.

”… Eh? Wha'ssa matter, lad—cat got yer tongue?“

  
His tone was impossible for Thistle to discern—and he made his concern known as he nearly leapt off the train, shaking like a leaf in a storm, script held close and crumpled in distress.

  
"Sir—oh, no, _no_ , Mister Conductor– Sir, I— I am so, so sorry! I– I– I can explain, I—” Thistle tripped on his words—and his own two feet. His explanations and pleas muddled into nearly incoherent rambling, stopping only as his boss raised a hand for him to stop speaking.

  
"Aye, no need t'explain nothin’, lad. I seen enough.“ He stood up, approaching the moth as he scribbled something down on his clipboard. Thistle shook, fighting back tears—this is it, he was certain. He had just lost one of his best jobs doing something so stupid, so careless, so—

Then, the Conductor handed him the clipboard.

…

"I—” Thistle nearly sobbed, blinking rapidly at the board in his hands. “I– I don’t understand.”

  
"Yer new schedule, lad—I expect ye early on me set tomorrow for rehearsal.“

  
"Wh— Wh… ? Rehearsal…? Me?” Thistle mumbled dumbly.

  
"Did I stutter? Yes, _you_ , lad. Ye put me darn Express Owls to shame—here I thought I’d have t'cut this whole character out! Thought it a waste of time—" The sharp, pointy owl paced irritably as he spoke before jabbing a finger in Thistle’s direction. “But **you!** Ye been holdin’ out on me, eh, laddie?”

  
Only now did his amused grin become apparent, tilting his head at the teary eyed moth. He clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he placed his hands on his hips.

  
"Awr, lad, I ain’t mean t'startle ye—just couldn’t risk runnin’ ye off me set when yer were so convincin’!“ He almost cooed, reminding Thistle of the tears that had threatened to spill—he quickly wiped his face on his sleeve, cheeks hot to the touch. He was embarrassed, shocked, and… starstruck, he supposed.

  
"Perhaps ye can give me useless Express Owls some pointers. Ah, s'pose I’ve gotta get yer a new badge then—err…” He paused, staring at the ground for a while in thought before sighing. “Sorry—what was yer name again, lad?”

  
"… Th— Thistle, sir,“ he replied quickly.

  
"Aye, y'think I’d remember that, seein’ as yer the only, eh… _not_ -bird ‘round the studio. Well, Thistle,” The Conductor nodded, turning on his heel as he made for the exit. “Donnae worry yerself about Grooves and such, he won’t be givin’ yer any trouble. Ye best head home for the night. Got a long day ahead of yer tomorrow! And don’t be late!”

  
With that, the Scottish owl made his exit with a bit of a skip in his step, humming cheerfully through a grin. Thistle stood dumbfounded as he watched The Conductor leave—the sound of doors shutting didn’t stir him from his million-mile stare in the least. Thistle only remembered himself as he heard the remaining crews call to one another, shakily placing the clipboard and script in one set of elbows, making his way out of the labyrinth of a studio.

… … …

Thistle wasn’t late a day in his life and today was no exception—if anything, he’d arrived on set too early. His nerves distracted him beyond a reasonable amount, antennae twitching in all sorts of directions while his gaze remained fixed on a cold cup of honeydew. He blankly greeted the cast and crew of owls as they arrived on set—they typically had a nod and a wave to pass in his direction, so he was taken aback when he was tossed an inquiry instead.

  
"Hey, uh,“ Thistle was snapped out of his idle gaze by a small wave of feathers—an Express Owl had apparently worked up the nerve to ask, "You got here pretty early—and, uh… Well, you’re normally on both sets. Is something going on?”

  
Thistle blinked as he was shaken from his hazy state of mind—he wasn’t sure if the other day has been a wild daydream or reality. He nodded, acknowledging the owl after a long pause.

  
"Oh—hi, Charles,“ he paused, smoothing his antennae back in some attempt to seem calm and casual. "I, uh… Just, y'know, needed to speak with The Conductor—do, uh… Do you know if he’s in, yet?”

  
"Umm… I think so. He should be on set in…“ The owl peeked at a small pocket watch for a moment, "Aaabout fifteen minutes? If, uh, there’s something wrong, though, he’s probably in his office right now having some whiskey for breakfast. You didn’t hear that from me, though…”

  
"Right— his office—"

  
Thistle hadn’t even completed those syllables before standing to turn on his heel towards the director’s office. Charles stood there with a 'oh, uh, okay’ as Thistle made his way, legs shaking with each step.

He couldn’t do this. _He couldn’t do this. **He couldn’t do this!**_

He nearly dropped his drink several times as he rushed, sneakers screeching at every turn. He hardly slowed to a brisk jog when he finally made it to the door—and the door made it to him.  
With a small and sudden yelp, Thistle fell flat on his back as the door had opened, spilling his cup—he covered his face as he sat up and whined. He was already on the verge of tears, now rubbing his face as hard as he could, as if that would soothe the hurt and stop him from weeping.

"Oi—lad! Pete’s sake, I ain’t seen ye comin'—are yer alright?“ The Conductor squawked, stepping forward to help Thistle off the ground. "Am sorry, lad—what in heaven’s name is the rush?” His tone was laced in sincere concern as Thistle stood shakily, tears welling up is his eyes despite his best efforts.

  
"Sir—sir, I– I’m so, so sorry, I– I don’t know if I can do this—!“ Thistle nearly sobbed, barely able to keep his voice from wavering or cracking pathetically. "I— What if I can’t—? What if I don’t—? I– I couldn’t handle if—”

  
"Laddie, lad— **Thistle!** “

  
With this, Thistle’s blubbering went silent, watery eyes wide and staring helplessly at his boss. The Conductor’s invisible gaze scrutinized the moth, shoulders falling as he tilted his head.

  
"Aye, yer ain’t gone and even given yerself a chance, lad. Hills alive, yer got more potential in one antenna than ye give yerself credit for!” A moment passed before The Conductor slowly and carefully took Thistle’s hands in his own, coaxing the moth’s gaze down.

  
"I seen stage fright plenty of times in me line of work. Yer just need to breathe, relax, clear ye head of all that ' _what if_ ’ nonsense.“ After a slight pause, the owl gently brought one set of Thistle’s hands to his chest, nodding, "Here, then—breathe with me, yeah?”

  
Thistle was shaken for a moment from the sincerity, the kindness, the contact—until The Conductor instructed him. A small, sad noise nearly made its way up from his chest, so he opted to nod instead of risk speaking. His eyes fluttered shut as he made an attempt to follow through—he was embarrassed, but he hoped the smack to the face concealed the heat on his face.

  
"Alright, deep breath in—"

  
The Conductor slowly inhaled, pressing Thistle’s hand(s) to help him follow suit. Thistle’s breathing was shaky, but he followed along as his boss counted.

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

Thistle held his breath as he mirrored The Conductor, attempting to clear his mind of his anxieties. The patience his boss exhibited was unexpected, contrasting with his loud and demanding behavior on and off set, but it was soothing—his antennae began to stop shuddering in every direction as he focused on breathing in sync with the owl. Thistle hadn’t realized how dizzy, shaky, and light-headed he was until he focused, grounding himself with each breath.

  
Soon, his eyes fluttered open, still following the rhythm of breathing established.

  
"Aye, there yer go, lad! S'alright, happens to the best of us,“ the pointy owl of a bird laughed, releasing Thistle’s hands—the moth hadn’t noticed they were still held to The Conductor’s chest, blinking rapidly out of sync as he forced himself to focus on breathing.

  
"Have a lil’ more faith in yerself—I saw yer for only a minute and know me darn Express Owls could learn a thing or two watchin’ ye. Trust me, they ain’t got room to squawk!”

  
Thistle fidgeted lightly with his lanyard and badge, bowing his head slightly, “Th– thank you, Mister Conductor, sir—”

  
"Ech,“ The Conductor interrupted. "Just ’Conductor’ is fine, lad. Am nae a bird for all them formalities and such, _Thistle_.” He smiled with a hum of a giggle, assuring Thistle he was not annoyed.

  
Thistle couldn’t stifle a small chuckle, nodding as he wrung his lanyard sheepishly. The heat splayed across his face didn’t register to him as his eyes smiled timidly—it was just the impression of the door, certainly.

"Of course, Conductor.“


End file.
